


Haunted By Midnight

by toesohnoes



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-03
Updated: 2007-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You killed me," Mohinder whispers, as clear as air.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted By Midnight

Mohinder's lips are cold as they brush over his neck. His hands on Sylar's shoulders are like sculpted ice, rubbing soothing circles and taking any tension away. The kinks in his muscles fade away under Mohinder's touch – Sylar can't stop the rumbling groan that echoes through his body as Mohinder works his body effortlessly.

"Is this okay?" Mohinder asks. His voice is light and husky by Sylar's ear. It makes him swallow hard and close his eyes, ignoring their surroundings. They're back in Mohinder's apartment, in the drab place where Mohinder once strapped him down and tortured him in the most clinical way imaginable. "Is this what you want?"

Cold breath like ice brushes over his ear like a silk caress. Sylar shivers, falling back into the touch of caring hands. "Yes," he whispers, because he can't imagine anything better than this. "I want this."

Mohinder is standing behind him but he can sense the smile that forms from those words. Light kisses brush over his jaw, a secret promise for a future together – a perfect fairytale ending, where he can live in love and forgiveness. Sylar keeps his eyes shut and surrenders to this fantasy.

None of this is real.

*

The glassy sheen to Mohinder's eyes - that's real.

The awkward angle of his neck, the limpness of his body, the stillness of his chest – that's real.

Sylar stares because he can't do anything else. Peter is still in the room, hiding invisibly, and Sylar supposes that he should be focused on him if he doesn't want to follow Mohinder into death. Who killed him? In the rush of the fight, Sylar doesn't remember. He remembers Mohinder flying backwards and he remembers the sick twist in his stomach when he heard the cracking sound that echoed through the air. He remembers the panicked look on Peter's face before he faded away: coward.

"Mohinder?" Sylar asks quietly.

There's no response.

He didn't really expect one.

He moves forward to kneel by the broken body, his hand closing over Mohinder's knee. It isn't cold yet and Mohinder could still be alive – but his head lolls and his eyes keep staring past Sylar. He's as gone as all the other people Sylar has killed. Regret rushes through him, as hard and cutting as a twisted dagger to the stomach. Mohinder is gone.

He can't stop staring and he can't stop the water that rushes to his eyes and this—

Yes, _this_ is real.

*

Mohinder's laugh is as natural as water or fire or air. Sylar can't remember what he said to prompt it, but he wants to say it again: he wants to hear that sound forever.

The sun above them shines fiercely and happily down on the bright green grass. There's a park and there are children and swings and they're lying on a chequered picnic blanket. Sylar remembers this place from his childhood. His mother used to take him here to play as a kid – he'd fall in the dirt and scrape his knees and the other children would laugh at him.

He holds onto Mohinder's hand and lies back on the blanket, staring at the sky. The clouds are dark and black, heavy with the threat of rain. Mohinder's laughter ceased.

"It wasn't my fault," Sylar whispers. His voice distorts like he's speaking through a megaphone. "You got in the way."

"You killed me," Mohinder whispers, as clear as air. "You made me die."

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

Mohinder's grip on his hand feels too tight, feels like it's crushing bone and destroying flesh. The children disappear from the park and leave them here alone, with Sylar's knees scraped and his throat aching.

"Mohinder," he gasps, but he can't say it: he can't say he's sorry.

The grip on his hand is released and the dream disappears.

*

The body is brought back to India for cremation – Sylar goes too, fidgeting on the plane and wishing that he could be anywhere but here. He shouldn’t have come, he's certain of that much. He didn't go to his mother's funeral; why is Mohinder so much more important?

No answer comes from the depths of his mind, so he stares out the window at the clouds that whisper past. His eyelids drag and the blackness of sleep chases him, but he tries to hold it off. He'd rather be exhausted than haunted by the ghost of that one fatal mistake.

There's a woman sleeping in the seat beside him and she breathes heavily through her mouth: it's irritating and just a step away from snoring, but the steady sound causes his eyes to gradually- gradually- gradually slip shut.

*

Mohinder moans tiredly and traces empty shapes with his finger onto Sylar's skin. "I'm so happy here," he murmurs. His head is pillowed on Sylar's chest; Sylar can feel his cold breath like a winter's wind over his body. "It's perfect," he says. "Everything I always wanted."

Sylar smiles and runs his fingers through those thick black curls: they feel like barbed wire scratching along his skin but he can't pull away and can't make himself stop. His body feels pre-programmed into a set of operations and movements. There's no breaking the routine.

"Me too," he whispers back. The situation seems so right, in bed together on a lazy Sunday.

But Mohinder's skin is as cool as a corpse and he's smiling but his eyes seem blank and there's a dribbling of blood from the corner of his mouth – perfection is spoiled.

Perfection is dead.

*

Mohinder's mother cries in broken, strangled sobs – Sylar watches her from afar and tries to see hints of her son in her. Mohinder was always far removed from his father, but there's nothing about him in this woman either: he was truly his own person.

This offers him a bare comfort. He leaves the ceremony before it's over and wanders the streets instead, alone and forlorn. The sun shines down heavily on his back and crowds mill around and absorb him in their midst.

He wonders if Mohinder walked these streets, if he played here as a child, if Chandra accompanied him to the market that bustles nearby, if Mohinder's ghost treads the ground beside him.

He doesn't believe in the supernatural – and he never wanted to, before now.

*

"The world is ending," Mohinder whispers as the sky falls.

Sylar holds him close and watches as comets fly and the moon crumbles into a hundred splintered pieces. It flies across the black sky like nearby stars, coming closer and getting bigger. It's fatal, it's final, it's fantastic. Mohinder watches with a dazzling smile.

*

He doesn't want to think about him any more.

He doesn't want Mohinder to haunt his thoughts, his dreams, his life.

He doesn't want to think of his mistakes and dwell on the past.

He glares out of the window on his way back to America. The plane skims through the night sky with natural agility; the moon is in tact and Mohinder is still dead. Dreams are dreams and nothing more.

Sylar just wishes that his subconscious would understand that too.

*

"I love you," he whispers into Mohinder's ear. His arms are around the man's shoulders as Mohinder stares into the distance, watching the water as it tickles over the sandy shore. Sylar remembers this place, remembers Mohinder's ashes scattering against the wind.

Mohinder laughs now and turns towards him. His teeth are bright and white and his eyes shine. "I hate you," he says, with wonder and joy in his voice and on his face. Sylar kisses the tip of his nose and nods. Those three words sound like the truest thing in the world.

*

He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms and walks from the airport, putting India and Mohinder and this stupid obsession behind him. He should never have got attached. He should never have let emotions get in the way, cloud his judgement. He should never have let Mohinder get hurt.

He grits his teeth and ignores the thoughts that claw hungrily at his mind, ripping bloody scratches down his conscience. He's not going to think about it any more: it's time to move on. It's time to stop dreaming.


End file.
